


Rage Against the Dying of the Light

by wildestranger



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-05
Updated: 2010-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-08 17:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildestranger/pseuds/wildestranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remus dreams of Sirius, and finds a dark spell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rage Against the Dying of the Light

  
_Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright,  
Their frail deed might have danced in a green bay,  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in light,  
And lean, too late, they grieved it on its way,  
Do not go gentle into that good night.  
Dylan Thomas

Remus dreams in the dark. There are leaves and branches and cold wind on his face and he can't see, but he knows he must continue, must keep walking. A part of him thinks, even in this almost-nightmare of a dream, that he is Lucy in the closet looking for Narnia, but it isn't a snow-filled glade that he is walking towards, it isn't Mr. Tumnus. Somewhere beyond these vines that seek to slow him down and smother him there is Sirius Black, and Remus keeps on walking, keeps pushing the trees aside even though his hands are raw and his arms are bleeding. Sirius doesn't call to him, but Remus knows he's there, and he walks on, towards the darkest space where he will find his friend.

: :

It's a dark spell. The kind of spell good Gryffindors should find it easy to resist, a foreign spell, made with dark magic, used by Slytherins. Yet Remus has stopped thinking about whether he is a good Gryffindor. Such words are becoming meaningless in the war, and although this annoys him, he is also relieved. These days being a Gryffindor doesn't mean that you're brave and valiant, it means that you're on the right side. Despite what McGonagall might think, despite what the Weasleys try to claim. Or what Dumbledore did when he was alive, and Harry still does.

The spell is rare, and he wasn't looking for it. Remus clings to this thought and repeats it to himself: he wasn't looking for it, he was doing something else, some research into the origin of Dementors and how the soul is destroyed. This doesn't absolve him of responsibility, but it reminds him that his intentions at least were pure. Up to the moment when he saw the words, archaic Latin and strange syntax at that, and a few moments of "It can't possibly mean what I think it means." Then Remus stopped breathing. Because he could do it. Bring Sirius back.

He has stopped thinking about Sirius that much. Every day there are a few hours when he doesn't think about Sirius, or remember the sudden touch of warm hands on his neck, or a sly breath of wine and desire against his lips. He has made himself stop, and he's better at it now than he was twenty years ago, fifteen years ago when thinking about Sirius was too painful to bear. His feet have learned not to be steady on any ground.

But there are dreams, and Remus wakes up, remembers and barely keeps from wailing. He is a silent man ('always so quiet Moony, you never say anything, but what if I did this, would that make you…") but there are sobs stronger than him, and sometimes he doesn't want to be quiet, sometimes there is loss, which, although not spoken about, must be howled out. Remus howls.

: :

There's a beach, not Blackpool or Hastings or any other tourist-infested watering place in England, but a beach with green air and a dark sea and a strange, lush undergrowth. It's not a beach Remus has ever visited. But there's a tree, the kind drawn in Muggle books about Paradise and Temptation, the kind with big snakes circling the trunk and heavy fruit falling off the branches. Sirius is sitting on the tree, naked and young, covered in mud and eating an apple. The signs Remus found on his body after Azkaban are not there; this Sirius is young, not yet brutalised and made mad by prison.

Sirius wants to play. He runs into the water, beckons Remus to follow him. The invitation is not only for fun and frolics in the sea, but for salty Sirius-skin and sharp teeth in a Sirius-smile and the low whisper of "Moony." Yet Remus knows he shouldn't, know there's something worse than death in these waters, something worse than Sirius. He stands on the beach, shivering for suddenly his clothes are wet as if he had been in the sea and Sirius is coming closer, exposed and vulnerable under the harsh light that isn't quite the sun, sea-water running down his body. And Remus can't say no.

He wakes up, and the realisation that his drenched skin is caused by the sweat of nightmares, not by salty sea and Sirius, makes him curl up on his bed, his fist in his mouth and shudder.

: :

There are some ingredients needed, some supplies he acquires almost without intending to. An accident at Snape's old Potions cabinet, an absent-minded borrowing of certain items at Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. Remus doesn't think about what he will use them for, because then he would have to decide whether to use them. At some point the possibility, the academic question of how to construct the potion becomes a realisation that this will happen, he will do this. He doesn't care to pinpoint the exact moment of decision because he knows there really wasn't one. If he can have Sirius then he can't not have Sirius.

He finds it almost curious that ethical issues about using dark magic don't come into it. Such guidelines are for children incapable of thinking for themselves, for Gryffindors, for those who have the luxury of a good life. For those who have the complacency of never questioning their choices, and who, therefore, are not fit to answer such questions. For others.

The time most appropriate for spell making is Halloween but Remus dreads it, too much longing and horror in that brief time, too many things unbearable and paralysing him with guilt. He fears the strength of the magic he might do, the strength of his loss as well as of his need. He doesn't talk about love anymore. Another Gryffindor word, another word used by happy people.

Remus makes his preparations, does his research, and waits. He doesn't go to meetings anymore, the war is run without him and now that he has refused to become happy and normal ("how can you be so ungrateful, Tonks is a lovely young woman and if you'd only see sense…") he is no longer that welcome amongst his friends. Fenrir Greyback's most publicised presence at Dumbledore's death has reminded people of what Dark Creatures werewolves are. It bothers him less now, when he no longer wants to be a part of that world, not when there are dark potions and memories of Sirius. He had asked Harry for 12, Grimmauld Place, never mind the humiliation, never mind the embarrassment of displaying his poverty and his neediness, never mind guilt tripping a young man into parting with his inheritance. Harry didn't want the house, though, and the order didn't need it. Now it belongs to Remus.

The ghosts that inhabit his memories, surfacing in the dark corners of his house, don't disturb him anymore. He waits, and they wait with him.

: :

This time it's Grimmauld Place, rotting curtains and walls whispering poison, and Sirius in his prison robes asking for him. But he never looks at Remus, and it isn't only Sirius who accuses him, there's Harry and Ron and Hermione and Ginny and Fred and George and Bill and Arthur and Molly and Tonks, oh god Tonks with all the added guilt of that, and he can't answer, he can't say, yes, Sirius, yes, talk to me, tell me what's wrong, tell me. He has no voice, and his tongue tastes foul in his mouth, tastes of nightmares and darkness and the kind of bitterness even he can't handle.

But then Sirius is there, grabbing Remus' hands and pulling him along the long corridors of the house, moving too fast, almost dancing in steps that Remus stumbles over, almost flying with inhuman grace that leaves Remus breathless. And there's a laughing mouth against his, and silly words, schoolboy words that make Remus remember secret corners of the library at Hogwarts and the smell of dry apples that Sirius stole from the kitchen for him. He remembers the creeping dread in the pit of his stomach when Snape cornered him, spouting words that filled his ears, that he could never speak out loud, words too true to be mentioned. And the acrid taste of Snape's robes when he pressed Remus against the wall and stuffed it into his mouth. And the wide-eyed shock in Snape's eyes the moment before he fell down, felled by Sirius' punch and those other secret words, Sirius-words whispered into his ear in the hot tight space between his bed-curtains, moaned into his skin, that almost destroyed the Snape-words.

Corridors alternate between Hogwarts and Grimmauld Place, all dark and cold with the dancing green light of Sirius ahead of him, dragging him deeper, and if this is it, if this is it then he never wants to breathe fresh air again.

: :

There's a cauldron, of course; a part of Remus is observing ironically the melodrama of this production. He found a set of old cauldrons in the cellar, unused for many years, with strange stains on them. Remus doesn't look at the stains too carefully; he cleans the cauldrons, sets up the ingredients, and draws a chalk circle on the floor of the ballroom.

His blood is humming in his ears and he knows it isn't just because there is dark magic swirling around in the room. He has thought over the possibilities of what might happen, the things that could go wrong ("but could it be worse than this, no it couldn't, nothing could"). All the vivid scenarios of deformed revenants invading his mind are still better than this. He gives up all claims to reason and common sense, without reluctance even for there's no sanity in him when it comes to Sirius, and this fever of nightmares and desperation is merely the latest in a long line. He wakes up from dreams all the time now, finds himself in the middle of a busy street or in a shop or in the bath. Keeping his mind is not possible anymore, but he hopes, even in this living dread he hopes that he might regain it with Sirius. Without, it is lost to him anyway.

He speaks the incantation, cuts his arm and lets the blood fall on the circle.

: :

Remus doesn't know if it's a dream, another tantalising promise that makes him howl with regret, or whether the smoke and the inhuman noises are the result of his spell. He can smell burning wood, and somebody is screaming at him, implacable hatred and disgust in her voice but Remus can't open his eyes. He is coughing, the fumes of the fire making him dizzy, reeking of burnt flesh and blood, all things foul and dark.

Somebody slaps him, and then there's another voice, a growl almost familiar and Remus struggles to open his eyes, something he must see now, something that keeps him from giving in to the tempting dark. His hands are slippery on the floor as he tries to get up, and there are tiny fires burning into his skin, but then somebody, with familiar scent and voice and touch and breath, is pulling him up, and dragging him out of the burning room.

There are still angry voices and loud footsteps, and the crash of falling staircases and walls and roofs around them as they stumble outside. October wind is cold but Remus doesn't feel it, although his blood is flowing again, the body beside him calling him back to his own. Somebody is shouting nearby, threats of Azkaban and the Ministry and imprisonment but Harry is yelling them down, his voice raw from smoke and grief and wild joy.

"Moony, Moony, wake up, open your eyes, come back. Come on, Remus, come back,"

The taste in the other man's mouth startles him, reminds him that he is Remus Lupin and this is Halloween and he has just performed illegal magic and that his toes are freezing. But Sirius' lips are warm and alive, and after a moment, so are his.

Remus opens his eyes.


End file.
